I fear that I talk too much. I do this mostly when I'm nervous, anxious, or otherwise stressed, but anymore, it has practically become the norm. It's as though I'm frantic to be heard--to be understood. But, then I panic with the sudden realization that I'd far rather not be fully understood. I'd far rather cherish my secrets and magic than have them vulgarly laid open before the gaze of all.

A wise person speaks but little, and does not feel so intensely the need to be understood, if indeed at all. I know I am far from wise, and forgive myself for it, and yet, I wish to be wise.

Sin is but missing the mark. I am, at once, not as I should be, and yet everything I am able to be at this time. One day, I shall know better, and shall not strive so any longer. One day, I shall know balance.

Reason's inexorable commentary causes Emotion to shudder--to cower and cringe in humiliation. Emotion begs mercy of Reason, but Reason points to fact and past proofs, and in their harsh, unforgiving light, Emotion can only concede, though with heavy heart and weary feet.

Hope flees witless and starving.

Every second of every day, it's already over. It's been and done and gone. This moment, alone, is all there is.

Relinquish, relinquish, my dear. It is to your destruction you would cling.